


A Panorama Written on Snow

by BlushingNewb



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Homophobic Language, Love, M/M, Reflection, Self-Reflection, Songfic, moments in time, reference to past drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3067478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a cold winter's eve, Sherlock Holmes has the opportunity to reflect on some of his memories.</p>
<p>This work was inspired by Peter Gabriel’s “This Is the Picture (Excellent Birds).”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Panorama Written on Snow

**Author's Note:**

> My response to the Solock Songfic Challenge. Felicitations to my fabulous beta, AllTheThings!

The feel of the curtain in his fingers was familiar, rough yet comforting, and he twisted it briefly before pushing it aside to stare down at the pavement. The frost on the windows somewhat obscured a Baker Street spread with snow, and it was late enough in the evening for the snow to remain unsullied - it glimmered in orange light, showing off sparkles that would likely be obscured in the morning. As Sherlock gazed at the snowfall outside, his soft breaths left the lightest blanket of vapour behind.

There had been other snows and other windows before, and as a single bird alighted on a roof across the way, Sherlock looked through the window and read the snow; he looked through his memories and read the past.

* * *

A wet nose pushed into his hand, and Sherlock let out a surprised giggle at the sensation. 

"Redbeard! Your nose is really cold! That's good though," he said, smiling down at his friend, "because it means you're healthy." The little boy ran his fingers through soft fur and circled them around to scratch behind a floppy ear. Sherlock leaned forward until his nose pressed against the glass of the dining room window.

"The snow's just stopped and I'm ready to go out," he said. He ran upstairs to don winter gear, knowing full well that his mother would never let him out unless he was bundled in wool to the point of near immobility. The dog trotted to the front hall, tail thumping rapidly against the floor in anticipation.

* * *

"This is its skull. It's pretty small, but feel how hard it is. It has to be, because that's where its brain is," Sherlock said, gently turning the bird toward him by its beak. He had taken off one of his mittens in order to run his fingers over the frozen feathers, to feel the difference between the magpie's underbelly and its wings.

"Mykee says that magpies know themselves when they look in the mirror. They're one of the smartest birds. But why?" said the boy, frowning to himself. "How could they be," he asked Redbeard, "when their brains are so small?" In response, Redbeard laid his head down in Sherlock's lap and whuffled.

Sherlock screwed up his mouth in deep thought, then brightened. "You're right, Redbeard," he said. "I'll take a picture. We can look in one of Dad's bird books." He grappled ineffectually for the small bag he'd brought with him, and, in a fit of exasperation, pulled off another mitten so he could dig through the pack for his Polaroid camera. After he had taken two pictures, one of the bird in its prone position, and one where he stretched out a single wing, he laid a cold hand over Redbeard's head. He could feel the cold wetness of the snow seeping through the knees of his trousers and knew he couldn't stay out much longer.

"But why did it die? It didn't freeze in midair, that would be stupid," he said aloud. "It hasn't been out here long, and nothing's been at it. Why, then?" he asked as he stood up. Redbeard shook himself off and nosed at the back of the boy's knees. Sherlock let out a chuckle; he could take a hint, and he gathered up his pictures and headed back home.

Later that evening, Sherlock, with Redbeard draped over his entire body, learned many terms relating to birds. But, he thought as he drifted to sleep, he still didn't know why the magpie had died.

* * *

Sherlock crouched down, peering intently at the small corpse on the grass. The boy a few paces away looked at his classmate and crooked his head to the right. There were many weird things that Sherlock did, but Kevin hadn't ever seen him with dead things before. He looked furtively at the playground just around the corner, hoping that nobody could see him standing next to Sherlock.

"Kevin, look at its wings. They're perfect, his phalanges aren't broken at all!" Sherlock said, excitement in his voice. 

"His what?" Kevin asked skeptically.

"His wings, that's what that word really means. Did you know that people have phalanges, too? They're in our fingers, and they're really called phalanx," Sherlock said, wiggling his fingers around. He turned around again, ignoring Kevin to slowly turn the bird on its side.

"Another dead bird," Sherlock muttered to himself.

Kevin didn't like that Sherlock was touching it - it felt wrong to him, for him to bother such a helpless little thing. "Sherlock, you should really leave the poor robin alone," he said in a small voice.

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "It's dead, it isn't hurting anymore. I want to know why it died," he said in an earnest voice. Suddenly, his eyes grew very wide, and he jerked his head upward to the window above. He stood and made a little jump, grinning widely.

"I know, I know!" Sherlock crowed. "It hit the glass. The shades are up and it's bright outside today. You can't see where he's hurt because it's all inside!"

Kevin backed slowly away from Sherlock, and his face twisted in disgust. He was so intent on getting away from his schoolmate that he wasn't fully aware of his surroundings, and he rammed directly into the chest of another boy. He turned around immediately, and his heart sank when he saw who he had bumped into. It was Brian, and Gilbert was right behind him.

Gilbert wasn't really bad - he mostly made fun of Mrs. Ensley - but Brian was different. When Mrs. Ensley wasn't looking, he pushed the smaller kids from behind, both girls and boys. Kevin didn't have much to do with him, but Sherlock was the shortest kid in class, and Brian liked to put his foot out in the aisle when Sherlock got up to help Mrs. Ensley write sums on the board. After the first time, Sherlock jumped over his feet, but Brian always found a way to pester him. Soon enough, Brian turned to name-calling under his breath, calling Sherlock "teacher's pet" and "nerd."

"What are you doing, you queer?" Brian asked Sherlock.

Kevin was stunned. This was a word he'd only heard on the telly, late when his parents thought he was sleeping. He didn't know what it meant, but it sounded bad.

Sherlock stood up and frowned at the two boys. "None of your business," he said, folding his arms. Gilbert nodded over at Brian and shifted his body, effectively blocking the boys from the sight of the children at the playground.

Brian walked closer to Sherlock and narrowed his eyes.  "It looks like you were playing with that dead bird," he said. "You're really just a little freak, aren't you? Everyone thinks you're so smart, but you're too strange to have any friends."

Sherlock didn't move, but Kevin thought he saw his lips tremble. After a few seconds, Sherlock lifted his head, and defiantly looking Brian straight in the eye, said, "and you don't have any real friends, either. You're too mean and stupid and everyone's just afraid of you."

Kevin didn't hear Brian say anything else, but he definitely saw Brian hit Sherlock directly in the face. Sherlock reeled to the side but got up quickly enough to throw a punch into Brian's stomach. Even doubled over, Brian was still dangerous, and he pushed Sherlock forward into the wall. Sherlock's fingers scrabbled over the brick, and he managed to slither away from Brian's arms and toward Kevin.

But before he could get there, Gilbert hooked a leg in front of his feet and Sherlock crashed to the ground. He had only made it to the corner and was crumpled up on his side, staring at the other kids several metres away, who were still chattering and playing, carefree, on the swings and monkey bars. Kevin stood next to Sherlock, with his mouth hanging open. Brian, still clutching his stomach, staggered over to Sherlock and aimed a kick directly at his backside.

"And stay down, you little turd!" he hissed. He and Gilbert slowly made their way back to the rest of the crowd, unnoticed.

Kevin crouched down next to Sherlock, who turned away from him to lie flat upon the ground. He craned his neck backward and blinked for several seconds. "It's like they're all standing on their heads on the sky," Sherlock said dazedly, "all the other people."

Bewildered, Kevin shuffled away from him. His movement caught Sherlock's attention and their eyes met.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Kevin blurted out. "I never know what you're talking about! You use all these words and...and..."

"And?" Sherlock asked.

"And you shouldn'tve touched it, and...and...that kind of stuff makes you look like such a weirdo, Sherlock," Kevin whispered, ashamed.

Tears welled up in Sherlock's eyes and, quite suddenly, he squeezed his hands into fists and jammed them up against his ears. He curled up on his side into a tight ball, and Kevin, who felt rather sick and very confused, wandered away from him to sit on a vacant seat on the swingset.

* * *

"Andrew," Sherlock said, not blinking as he stared into the microscope.

"What've you got this evening, Sherl?" Andrew asked casually, strolling into the otherwise vacant lab. "Know you've always got something going."

Sherlock straightened up and looked quizzically over at Andrew. "Evening?" he said, frowning.

Andrew chuckled dryly. "Yes, evening. Guess the time got away from you again? We were supposed to go to the pub together, remember? You were going to be my wingman - c'mon, I got you access to the lab at all hours, and you said you'd finally come with me." With a teasing smile, Andrew said, "you know those girls love it when you talk about spores and mud - makes it all too easy."

Sherlock let out a faint "hmmm," and, gesturing to the slide on the stage, he said, "fresh coccidia sample. I wanted to compare this with samples from dog droppings."

Andrew raised an eyebrow at his friend. "Well, obviously, that's more important than a night out on the town," he commented. A faint smile crossed Sherlock's lips. It only lasted for a moment, though, and Sherlock shook his head. " 'Drew, I'm utterly useless when it comes to those things; my mind's everywhere at once, and I just want to be somewhere quiet."

Andrew let out a bark of laughter and good-naturedly clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I figured you might say something like that; that's why I've brought you something new. I know you like new things, Mr. Chemistry, so try this one on for size: benzoylmethylecgonine."

Sherlock mouthed over the word once and lifted his fingers to his lips. Almost to himself, he said, "helps with concentration, alertness..." Trailing off, he smiled up at Andrew; Andrew who tolerated his eccentricities, his oddness. Andrew, who seemed to appreciate his intellect and was occasionally quite bright himself.

"I think it would be a most excellent experiment," Sherlock replied.

* * *

By the time Sherlock stumbled onto diacetylmorphine, he only cared about the various names for it inasmuch as it allowed him to get it.

* * *

Sherlock glared out at the street below and gripped the curtain tightly, digging his fingers into the loosely woven threads, warping them out of place. Too much white powder below, too much sparkle, too much pain, and it looked to him like the blanket of snow barely covered festering wounds, gaping holes in flesh. He slammed his eyes shut against the pictures in his head, too many pictures.

A presence at his back brought him back to the now, a warm, familiar hand curled tentatively around his waist.

_Oh yes, thank you, yes, thank you_ , and it was John, and Sherlock allowed himself to relax into the embrace. John pressed his head against Sherlock's back and murmured, "What do you see out there?"

_Oh, John._

John with excellent words, yes, words with a realness to them, with the promise of a future. Amazing, fantastic, extraordinary, he'd said and written about Sherlock, written for everyone to see. And John was his now, his at last, his John who cried _yes, more, harder, god yes_ , over and over, and Sherlock opened his eyes and in his mind wrote those better words, those best words _please, so good, please, yes, please **love**_ down on the snow. It shone brightly again, just for John.

The pictures on the snow faded away, and with his mind, Sherlock saw John walk over them, rewriting everything with his footprints. The bird on the rooftop soared off into the sky, and Sherlock saw its colour, as bold a blue as he had ever seen, the impossible coming to life from the depths of bitterest cold. Sherlock turned into John and cradled his head to his chest.

"For just a second, I thought I could see the stars reflected by snow," he said into John's ear.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I haven't posted for a while, now. It's been a miserable and busy fall - work and giftmas crafting - but I've still got many stories in my head, waiting for the precise moment when I can put pen to paper. I'd better go get to that, then...
> 
> Thank you so much for reading.
> 
> Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.


End file.
